


She Gilds Her Scars In Gold

by queercyberpunk



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-11-14
Updated: 2014-11-29
Packaged: 2018-02-25 07:24:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 4,217
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2613254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queercyberpunk/pseuds/queercyberpunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hawke is drawn to Isabela, and they learn to love each other despite the scars they both bear. A series of vignettes.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. An Awful Lot of Feathers

**Author's Note:**

> There isn't enough Female Hawke / Isabela in this fandom! And I think that's something that should change. 
> 
> Here is my modest contribution. I'm unable to write a lengthy piece because of college, but I present to you this short ode to Marian Hawke and Isabela. Updates will be intermittent and when I find the time to write. I would also like to put a trigger warning at the beginning of the this fic, as it will include blood magic and thus self-harm. If there is anyone triggered by this, I'd recommend steering clear of this fic. 
> 
> That being said, enjoy!

I.

“That Anders fellow is rather handsome, don’t you think?”

Hawke glances over her shoulder as she runs a damp washcloth over her bare arms. She twists the ragged cloth over a squat wooden basin and twists it hard.

“You think?” Hawke says, scrubbing at the back of her neck. “He wore an awful lot of feathers…”

“But he seems so dark and mysterious and handsome. In a vagrant sort of way. You don’t agree, sister?” Bethany runs a wide-toothed comb through her lustrous dark hair. It falls, silken and thick, over her shoulders as she works through any knots. Her hair was always so fine in a way Hawke’s never was. Hers was prone to tangling and messiness, and Hawke detested caring for it. She still remembers her Mother’s shriek of shock when Hawke gave herself a short, uneven crop with a dagger.

“I mean, I don’t disagree,” Hawke says, mouth curling into a thoughtful frown. “I suppose he’s alright...a bit scruffy, maybe.”

 “Scruffy?” Bethany laughs, light and tinkling like a wind chime. “You make him sound like a puppy.”

“A sad-eyed puppy,” Hawke says, grinning. She splashes her cheeks with some of the water from the basin. “Although I don’t suppose I’ve ever seen a puppy glow that shade of blue.”

“It’s tragic, isn’t it?” Bethany says, laying down on the bottom bunk. She raises her hand and lets a few strands of magic trail between her fingertips. “Sometimes I forget how dangerous magic is. How wrong things can go.”

 “Don’t worry one bit, Bethany,” Hawke says, making her way over to their bunk. She leans down and gives Bethany a kiss on the cheek. “Father taught you well. And I have every confidence in you. The only thing we have to fear right now are the Templars, and once I have the coin, I’ll be able to protect you even from them.”

Bethany’s tawny eyes glow in the dim candlelight, welling with profound sadness. She touches a fingertip to the dark, ropy scar that slashes across the bridge of Hawke’s nose. “I suppose you’re right,” she says. Her voice is quiet, trembling ever so slightly. Hawke gives her a crooked smile. Hawke hasn’t known how to comfort her sister--at least not since Carver died. That abiding grief has crept into her sister’s eyes, and Hawke doesn’t know how to banish it.

Hawke climbs onto the top bunk and settles into the scratchy sheets. She can hear Bethany’s uneven breathing and the raspy slur of Gamlen’s voice from the other room. “Sister?” Hawke whispers.

“What is it?” Bethany asks.

“Varric asked me to visit him at The Hanged Man tomorrow. Would you like to come?”

“Of course,” Bethany says. “Don’t tell Mother though, she’d have a fit if she knew we were going to a tavern.”

“My lips are sealed. Maybe I’ll even bring your Anders along. You can try to get him drunk and coax that tragic past out of him.”

Although Hawke can’t see her sister, she knows Bethany is blushing. “Very funny.”

“Goodnight, sister,” Hawke says. Her fingertips find the scar that lies across the bridge of her nose. She traces its familiar, uneven surface.

“Goodnight.”


	2. Dangerous

II.

 

When Hawke sees her across The Hanged Man, she’s amazed.

She sees gold jewelry against dark skin, glinting daggers, and a swath of exposed thigh. She sees movements so smooth and refined, Hawke’s not sure even she’d be able to repel them. She sees a playful smirk and a golden stud residing under full lips. Hawke is breathless.

A troupe of injured, embarrassed men hurry past Hawke to the door. Hawke watches them go, feeling both impressed and bemused.

“That was…” Bethany trails.

“Incredible,” Hawke finishes. “We should talk to her.”

“Should we?” Aveline asks, crossing her arms and giving Hawke an appraising look. “The Hanged Man is filled with drunkards and layabouts. I doubt anyone who frequents here is worth acquainting with.”

“But did you see those _moves_?” Hawke says, unable to stop her enthusiasm from leaking into her words. Hawke envies the woman’s fluidity and grace. Hawke was always too tall and gangly to emulate that fighting style. Father had tried to teach her daggers once, only to declare it an abject failure. It wasn’t until he handed her a monstrously heavy greatsword that she found her knack. “We definitely ought to talk to her.”

Aveline looks unconvinced but says no more.

It turns out that the woman’s name is Isabela and she receives Hawke with a coquettish smile. Hawke accedes to her request for help, and finds herself tripping over her words. Those golden eyes are fixated upon her, keen and all-knowing. Hawke feels exposed, even in her full set of mail.

“Sister,” Bethany says, arms crossed and impatience tingeing her voice, “aren’t we here to see Varric?”

“Yes, Varric. Of course.” Hawke straightens herself. She glances towards Isabela, who lounges easily against the bar “Hightown, after dark?”

“I’ll see you there,” Isabela answers, taking a swig from her chipped wooden mug.

They push through the crowd of drunken patrons towards the stairs. It’s rather busy, considering the sun still ascendant in the summer sky. “She seems dangerous,” Bethany says quietly as they ascend to Varric’s suite. Hawke can sense her apprehension.

“Yes,” Hawke says, feeling a small grin possessing her lips, “she does.”

 

 


	3. A Promise

III.

 Isabela is a marvel in combat.

 Her body is flexible to the extreme and she seems to possess a preternatural sense of timing. Her body bends to avoid blows before they even have the chance to graze her. Her footing is sure and her physical condition is superb. She can fall from sight, become a shadow that flits across the battlefield, or instead a roaring nexus of destruction and bloodshed. She is all confidence and flashy style, relishing in puncturing an enemy’s defenses and shattering their own superiority. She revels in the way men underestimate her, as their own bitter loss makes her victory all the sweeter.

Hawke has never seen anyone so fast with a lock or so good a haggler. She can speak in the language of money, which is something Hawke has never excelled at. Hawke has always been too blunt, too forward. Her lack of subtlety is contrasted against Isabela’s own delicate touch. Hawke is in awe of her, and indeed she reigns supreme in their rounds of Wicked Grace. Even Varric, an excellent gambler, is susceptible to her skills. He scoffs in disgust with each round he loses to her, digging into his fat purse to relieve himself of several sovereigns.

Isabela accepts her winnings with a cheeky, knowing smile. She is lighthearted and deadly, glib and clever. She tells outrageous stories of the Hero of Ferelden and the countless taverns she’s haunted. She has even better tales about her adventures at sea--violent thunderstorms, rival pirates, and naval pursuits. Hawke is enraptured when she speaks; Hawke’s own experiences seem so limited compared to this woman of the world, this aficionado of chaos.

And yet, she seems interested in Hawke. She listens with care when Hawke speaks of the darkspawn that flooded Lothering. Her attention is rapt when Hawke describes the size of the ogre she faced down. She nods in sympathy when Hawke drinks too much cheap ale and waxes on about Carver. And one night, after too many mugs of rum, Isabela even puts her hand on Hawke’s thigh under the table. Those deft fingers trail across her thigh, and Hawke can feel the color rising up in her cheeks. Hawke can hear her heartbeat in her ears and feel the searing trail those long-fingered hands.  

Hawke’s secret cache of coin grows larger by the day. She counts it every night before bed while Bethany combs her hair. She counts thirty sovereigns and she feels her heart thrum as she runs fingertips across the pile of coins. They are so close that Hawke can almost taste it. She’s grown tired of the cramped shack and Gamlen’s drunk ravings. Almost worse than their destitution is Leandra’s depression. She grows more and more listless as the days wear on, her skin pale from sunless days inside the cramped shack.

The prospect of regaining the Amell manor seems to grow farther and farther as the truth of their poverty settles upon Leandra. Hawke vows to herself to give her mother and Bethany the life they deserve. After the tumult of their escape from Ferelden and the hardship of their years in Kirkwall, Hawke would brave a darkspawn horde herself to see them happy.

“Do you really think this expedition is our ticket out of Lowtown?” Bethany asks one night as she sits curled on her bottom bunk. She twists strands of hair between her fingertips and Hawke knows it’s a nervous tic.

“It has to be,” Hawke answers resolutely. She tucks the cache of coins under a loose floorboard and pulls a rug of braided rags over her hiding spot.

“What if we have to go back to Athenril?” Bethany says, a tremor growing in her voice. “An apostate involved in smuggling isn’t exactly discreet. And even then, the coin wouldn’t be good enough to reclaim the Amell estate.”

Hawke crosses the room and sits beside Bethany on the stiff straw mattress. “I know this is our way out. Trust me, sister.”

Bethany’s eyes search Hawke’s face, as if looking for some reason to doubt her words. “I trust you,” she says, finally.

Hawke smiles. “I won’t let you down. Not again. I promise.”


	4. A Daring Adventurer

 

IV.

“Tell me, sweet thing, how did you get that scar?”

Isabela is already in her cups, and her eyes are bright with drink and curiosity. Hawke lightly touches the raised scar which lies across the bridge of her nose. “Oh, this?” Hawke runs her finger around the rim of her mug. “It’s not a very exciting story.”

“Oh come now,” Isabela says, edging closer to Hawke and nudging her with her shoulder. “Humor me.”

Hawke sighs and takes another a long draught of her ale. “I’ve had it for a very long time. Since I was about six or seven. I used to antagonize Bethany when I was younger; I was a bit of a monster.”

Isabela laughs and it’s hearty and deep. “I can picture that,” she says.

“I had been prodding at her all day while our parents’ backs were turned. I would pinch her and poke her in the ribs and try to tickle her. Bethany would always shriek and tell me to stop, but that only made me pester her more.” Hawke smiles, a little wistfully. “Maker, I was such a terror. Anyways, she started to cry but I didn’t stop. She started flailing and fire suddenly shot out of her hands. Some it caught me right across the nose.”

Isabela took finishes her mug and wipes at her chin. “Ouch.”

“I learned my lesson. And that’s when we learned Bethany was a mage. Poor thing, after that she was so afraid she would hurt someone. She started crying when she saw that she’d burnt me. Father had to use magic to soothe her.” Hawke stares into her drink, suddenly overcome with the love and simplicity of her childhood memories. She misses her father, she thinks. She remembers when he rubbed a salve across her burn every night, making sure that it healed with a little scarring as possible. He was no Spirit Healer, but he did have an impressive knowledge of herbs. Malcolm Hawke had a salve for everything.

“And that’s the story of my scar,” Hawke finishes.

“I quite like it,” Isabela remarks, waving over another round of drinks. “I think it makes you look daring.”

“Daring?” Hawke says, quirking a brow.

“Yes,” Isabela answers, chuckling, “like a daring adventurer carving her way through Thedas. Have you ever thought of leaving here and exploring? Seeing the world?”

Hawke ponders it for a moment. “Maybe some day. But for now, my family is here, and that’s more than enough reason to stay.”

“You should think about it,” Isabela says. “When I get my ship, I could always use a fine swordsman like yourself.”

Hawke feels her heart begin to beat out a strange, discordant rhythm. “You could?”

“Of course, sweet thing. I have a feeling you’d love the open ocean--the spray of salt against your skin and the breeze in your hair. The creak of boards beneath your feet and the sun gleaming on the waves.” Isabela closes her eyes, lost in her own fantasy. “Heaven,” she breathes, her eyes still closed.

Hawke examines the way her lustrous, thick eyelashes rest against her cheek. Tendrils of dark hair curl around her shoulders and her embroidered bandana cannot wholly contain the wildness of her locks. Loose strands hang around her dark cheeks and splay artfully across her forehead. Hawke can only imagine the majesty of seeing her, windswept and exuberant, in her element. The Hanged Man, illuminated only by fat, dripping candles, makes her abundant jewelry gleam a warm, burnished gold. It only enhances the richness of her skin. Hawke’s eyes trail down to her luscious curves accentuated by her tight, laced bodice. Her femininity is complemented by the power of her figure, from her muscled arms to her hips, which speak of astounding lower body strength.

Isabela’s eyes flash open, and she catches Hawke staring. Hawke wants to look away, but she can’t. Isabela watches her for a moment, those golden eyes utterly inscrutable.

“Next round’s on me,” Isabela says, smiling faintly.


	5. Goodbyes

V.

Hawke counts fifty sovereigns and her heart is heavy in her chest. It means that the seeds of her labors have ripened and the expedition awaits her and Bethany. Of course, that all hinges upon whether or not Varric can convince his truculent older brother. Hawke doesn’t doubt that he can. 

Hawke holds the teeming pouch of coins and weighs it in her hands. She’s holding her future--her golden, gilded future. It feels all the heavier.

She knows she should go to The Hanged Man and tell Varric. Her mind begins to race with all the final errands she must run. And then there’s the question of who to bring alongside Bethany and Varric. She pockets the pouch of coins and carefully places the maps of The Deep Roads in her pack. This is the beginning, Hawke thinks, and things will get better. They must. No more thin stew and washing themselves with a small basin. She’ll get them a bath--a real bath--and rich meats, lush vegetables, and spices. They’d have palatable meals and soft beds. 

Hawke straps on her armor with a renewed sense of purpose. She flexes her fingers after adjusting her gauntlets and the extra weight of her mail feels familiar and comforting. No doubt, Bethany is already awake and sharing a watery cup of tea with Mother. Hawke squares her shoulders and leaves her tiny bedroom 

They take the news well. Leandra looks concerned, her face more aged and tired than it’s ever looked. Bethany bounces up from the table and flits off to find her stave. 

“You’ll take care of her, won’t you?” Leandra asks, her eyes pleading.

“I will.”

Leandra stands a places a hand on Hawke’s cheek. “You’ve gotten so strong. Malcom would be proud.”

Hawke tries to swallow the gathering lump in her throat. “He will be,” she says. Leandra brushes an unruly strand of Hawke’s hair behind her ear, with a smile that speaks of a terrible sadness. “I’ll get us back the estate, Mother.”

“I know you will, my warrior,” Leandra says, her eyes beginning to brim with tears.

“Are we ready to go?” Bethany asks, perching her stave across her back. Leandra takes a step back, her hand falling away from Hawke’s cheek. 

“Just about,” Hawke replies, giving her mother a reassuring nod. 

“Come here,” Leandra says to Bethany. She gives herself to her mother’s embrace and Leandra’s arms wrap around her daughter. One hand clings to her waist while the other strokes Bethany’s long hair. A few perfect teardrops trace down her cheeks. “My little girl,” Leandra says, her voice strangely thick. 

“I’ll be fine, Mother,” Bethany says, her tone light. “Don’t worry. And try to keep Gamlen in line.”

When the door shuts behind them, it feels oddly final. Hawke takes a deep breath of Lowtown air; it’s humid and slightly putrid, but it’s familiar. “Have you thought about who else we should take?” Hawke asks, because truly, she doesn’t know. 

Bethany chews on her lip, thinking. “If anyone were to keep us alive down there, it’s Aveline.”

“I think you might be right,” Hawke says. “Let’s take stroll up to Hightown, shall we?”

Hawke observes the marketplace with new eyes; she sees details she might have overlooked before, and with a fondness she didn’t know she held for this stinking city. She sees the merchants haggling and smells the unmistakable saltiness of fresh fish. She sees hooded figures that cling to narrow back alleys and skittish elves that dot the crowds of humans. She sees a young pickpocket trying to find an unwitting victim and a shoeless beggar baking in the early afternoon heat. Hawke thinks this place is so dirty and desperate and honest.

The transition from Lowtown to Hightown is abrupt and jarring. Roughspun tunics turn into fine brocades and silks. The vast gulf between the rich and the poor seems impossibly wide. The merchants become well-kempt and sneering, put off by Hawke’s Ferelden look and dented armor. The heat is punishing and the steps to The Viscount’s Keep makes beads of sweat materialize on her forehead. 

Hawke thinks about Isabela. She wonders if she’ll still be sitting in her favorite spot at The Hanged Man when they come back from their expedition. She wonders if Isabela be in Kirkwall at all. Isabela is as free as the wind, and as impossible to pin down. 

Once Aveline assents to come with them , they’re off again down the steps to Lowtown and Varric’s suite. Bethany twists a lock of her hair nervously between her fingers and Aveline seems surlier than usual. Hawke’s normal chattiness has quieted to near silence. As they leave behind their lives, the actualization of their efforts seems to strike them all at once. 

The Hanged Man is quiet and Hawke feels her hands trembling with nervousness. She brushes a hand against her pocket to feel the fat sack of coins, as if to remind herself of its reality. Isabela is lounging against the bar, and Hawke catches her eye as they cross the threshold and enter the dim tavern.

“Where are you off to?” Isabela queries, tilting her head with owlish curiosity. 

“The Deep Roads,” Hawke answers. “The expedition is on.”

“Well, now,” Isabela says, smiling, “that’s something. When you come back filthy rich, you can buy me something shiny.”

“Of course,” Hawke retorts, feeling fortified by Isabela’s easy confidence. Isabela strides away from the bar towards Hawke. She leans up to plant a soft kiss on Hawke’s cheek. Hawke breathes in sharply, and those lips linger for a moment.

“For luck,” Isabela whispers, soft breath fanning across Hawke’s cheek. She can smell the whiskey on Isabela’s breath and and the musk of her hair. 

“Thanks,” Hawke says, a little breathless. “You’ll be here when I get back?”

Isabela simply shakes her head, a wry smile on her full lips. “Go,” she says, “and be a daring adventurer.”


	6. Stars

VI.

 

Hawke has carried her sister for ten thousand steps. She’s counted each of them; a chant that fills her, that numbs her. Hawke’s arms are screaming, her heart is crumbling, and her mind is full of numbers. Three bodies. Malcolm's, finally succumbing to sickness. Carver’s, broken and twisted by the Ogre. Bethany’s, grey and limp.

Two years in Kirkwall. One year of servitude and smuggling. One year of freedom and toil.

Twenty years of life. Snuffed out in seven days.

One dragon. Four backpacks full of gold and ancient artifacts. Three travelers emerging to the surface.

Ten thousand and fifty. Pain lances up Hawke’s legs with each step. Her two arms can hardly bear the burden she has chosen to carry. Two opinions. Varric’s eyes filled with sorrow and Aveline’s reserved. Varric telling Hawke to burn the body. It would only bring more pain to see the effects of the corruption. Aveline telling Hawke to bring a daughter home to her mother.

“Hawke,” Varric says, jogging up to her side, “we’re going to have to rest soon.” The pity in his eyes twists Hawke’s abused heart.

“We’re close,” she answers. Her voice feels strange as it leaves her dry, cracked lips. Her throat is barren and her stomach is an echoing cavern. They’re all parched and tired, and their supplies ran out days ago. Varric is still watching her, jaw clenched at her clipped answer.

“Hawke,” he says, pleading.

“Water,” Hawke responds, finally slowing her pace. “We need to find water.”

“Yes,” Varric says, “and it’s getting dark. Trying to make our way through the outskirts of Kirkwall in the dark--in our condition, it’d be suicide.”

Aveline sets down her pack and there’s the heavy clanking sound of metal. “We’ll set up camp then. We can leave for Kirkwall at dawn’s first light. I’m going to look for some water.”

“And I’ll see if Bianca can rustle us up something to eat,” Varric says, drawing his crossbow. The two look to Hawke, who says nothing. She carefully sets down her sister’s corpse.

“Fire,” Hawke says, “I’ll build a fire.”

Everyone parts ways, and Hawke kneels down on the loamy earth beside her sister’s body. Hawke takes her traveling cloak from her shoulders and lays it across Bethany. With the cloak resting atop her, Hawke imagines for a moment that Bethany is merely asleep. If not for the greyish cast to her skin, webbed with veins and corruption, Hawke could almost believe that fantasy.

It was all fantasy. A better life, a gilded life. A happy life.

“I’m sorry,” Hawke whispers, stroking her sister’s thick, black hair. “I let you down. You trusted me and I…” Hawke chokes on the words as if they’re acid. “I’m so sorry,” she says, hot tears carving paths across her cheeks. Hawke draws the cloak over her sister’s head as tears drip down her crooked nose, broken years ago by Carver.

Hawke stands, swiping at her cheeks to dry the wetness there. Kindling, she needs kindling. She begins her task, tucking small, dry sticks into the crook of her arm as underbrush crunches beneath her feet. “Can you hear me, Bethany? Carver?” Hawke begins, not sure who she’s talking to. “I hope you’re both...somewhere good and happy. The Maker’s side and all that...I don’t know. We never were very good Andrastians, were we? Maker’s breath, Mother used to be so scared of the Chantry. Thought that if we got too close they would _smell_ the apostate on us. I’ve never had much faith, I suppose. I just hope…I hope...”

The sounds of the wild answer Hawke. She hears the chirping of crickets and the soft warbling of a bird. There’s the earthy crunch of foliage beneath her boots and a distant rustling. Hawke can feel the warmth of the setting sun on her cheek and the humidity in the air, signaling rain soon.

She’s alone. No one is listening.

Hawke draws a rough breath, adjusting the bundle of sticks she has tucked into her arms.

She’s the first one back to camp and she begins to set up the fire. She strikes the flint against steel and soon the pyre grows. The sun is nearly set now and Aveline and Varric ought to be back anytime.

Hawke stretches out on the ground beside Bethany. Hawke thinks of the cool country nights where they would count stars. Bethany was always so good at finding constellations, painstakingly pointing them out to her sister. They just looked like a mess of dots to Hawke.

It all made sense to Bethany. The delicate meshing of the heavens and religious theory and people. Bethany was good with people. She could wade through The Canticles of Transfigurations and even seem to enjoy it. It was a marvel to Hawke, who was always too twitchy to sit and read. She liked to be up, moving, doing things with her hands. Bethany was always so contained, so wise. She was the arbiter of Hawke and Carver’s chaotic relationship. She understood Carver and his transient moods, and she understood Hawke and her stubbornness. How could she see the lines between those innumerable dots? How did she sit so calm, so comforting at Malcolm’s bedside, dabbing at his forehead with a cool cloth? How could she soothe Carver’s anger with the lightest touch?

Hawke thinks of the trinkets and the relics in her bag. She thinks of the delicately carved necklaces, dripping with jewels and striking inlays. She thinks of the new greatsword she’d scavenged, enchanted with some ancient power that hummed with every arc.

She wants to throw it away. She wants to trade it back, like some offering to the past. She wants to make sense of the stars again. She can’t do it alone.

 

 


End file.
